8. Sophia
EIGHT
SOPHIA
N o matter how hard I scrub, I can still feel his vile hands on me, the phantom of his touch burned into my skin like a stain that refuses to fade. The water runs scalding hot, but it’s not enough—I scrub harder, desperate, but nothing changes. His ghost is still there, clinging to my arms, my neck, my chest. I can’t escape it. I don’t know if I ever will. How do I move on from something like this? Can I move on? My leg throbs faintly, a cruel reminder. Will I ever regain full control of it? Or will the scars—inside and out—be a constant reminder of what he did to me? Of what I survived? Each unanswered question feels heavier than the last, pressing down on me like the weight of his hands all over again. Every time I close my eyes, I see that room. The smell. His eyes. God, his eyes—those cold, haunting eyes will never leave me. And the smell—that rancid stench will forever be branded in my lungs, choking me with each breath. I know I’m not there anymore. It has been over two months since I escaped, but my brain hasn’t caught up. The nights are the worst. I try to sleep, but the memories chase me into nightmares, and I wake up screaming, my throat raw with fear, screaming for him.
For Maxim.
Tears spill down my face, mixing with the water as I sob. The thought of his name shreds something inside me. It’s as if my heart has been carved out, and someone is pouring salt into the wound. I’ve wanted to call him. So many times. To tell him I need him. But every time I reach for my phone, the thought of him not protecting me as he promised fills me with such anger, it surges through my body, pushing the need for him deep down, locking it away.
I don’t regret leaving that house, the room—the walls caving in on me, the suffocating air, the constant checkups by the nurses. It was breaking me. But more than that, I needed to get away from Maxim. Every time he came into the room, I saw the devastation in his eyes, and it nearly shattered me. He was broken too. I couldn’t handle seeing him like that—someone so put together now so undone. His beard was a mess. His eyes were bloodshot, with deep purple bags under them. I had to say goodbye.
Even though I know it wasn’t his fault, what he did—how he found me, protected me—it doesn’t matter right now. I can’t be with someone like him, someone so possessive, so controlling. He wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace. And if I stayed with him, I’d hate him even more. That anger, that resentment—it would consume me.
If I’m honest, I don’t know if I’ll ever try to fix what we had. His world—it’s not one I’m suited for. Luca told me this happens more than he likes to admit. He keeps his wife locked up tight, with guards around her 24/7. How could she live like that? How could I? I’d suffocate.
I’m not the partying type. I love the quiet things—the bookstores, eating out with family, seeing a movie now and then. I work hard, and I need to relax. But if someone was watching me all the time, I’d lose it. I couldn’t enjoy my life.
I sit in the shower for too long, and the water turns cold around me. The tingling in my legs reminds me I’ve stayed still too long. Slowly, I push myself up, my arms resting on the edge of the tub as I wait for the pins and needles to fade. After drying off, I slip into the same type of clothes I’ve been wearing since I came home—a sweater and sweatpants. Baggy. Comforting. They hide everything. I don’t want to see my body—don’t want to feel the cuts, the stitches. The reminders are always there, but I don’t need to see them.
I reach for the sleeping pills the nurse gave me. This is the first time I’ve had the courage to take one. I’ve been trying to fall asleep on my own, but the nightmares come anyway. Every night. This time, I’m not fighting it. I take one, hoping it works.
I set the bottle back down and turn off the lamp, curling under my comforter. I close my eyes, willing the medication to take hold, hoping for peace, even if it’s just for tonight.
But then, the tingling sensation of someone caressing my cheek jolts me awake. My eyes snap open, my breath catching in my throat. I look around—nothing. But the feeling doesn’t fade. My pulse races, confusion clouding my mind. I sit up, flick the lamp on, and the scent hits me—whiskey, sandalwood. It fills the room, wrapping around me, pulling me into a trance.
Maxim.
Was he here? Or is it just the ghost of him, woven into every corner of this house, every shadow of this room? His presence clings to the air—his scent in the upholstery, his voice lingering like an echo that never truly fades. I can’t escape him, even when he’s not here.
Maxim’s control is relentless, all-encompassing. His men watch my every move, stationed outside, always near, a constant reminder that I am never alone. It infuriates me—the loss of privacy, the feeling of being monitored in what should be my sanctuary. But beneath the frustration lies an uncomfortable truth: I need it. As much as it grates on me, it also reassures me.
I hate how much I rely on his protection, how his grip on my life keeps the terror at bay. Because the fear never really leaves—the fear of being taken again, of those hands on me, of that darkness pulling me under. His vigilance is both a cage and a shield, and I don’t know whether to scream or sigh in relief.
My heart races as I leap out of bed, the comforter tangled around my legs, almost sending me crashing to the floor. I manage to steady myself by gripping the edge of the bed and the nightstand, my breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. After a few moments, the pain in my leg subsides enough for me to move, though each step feels unsteady. I make my way to the living room, my eyes darting around, scanning the space like I’m searching for a ghost.
There’s no one here.
The weight of disappointment hits me hard, and I collapse onto the couch, burying my face in my hands. I shake my head in disbelief. What the hell is wrong with me? I wanted him to respect my space. I’m the one who decided to leave. I’m the one who ended things with him.
So why does it feel like I’ve made the wrong choice?
A ping from the kitchen breaks my thoughts, and I pull my hands away from my face, eyes flicking toward the source. I see a flicker of light on the kitchen table before it disappears. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I stand, walking over. My phone.
What the hell? I left it on my nightstand .
I grab it, feeling the cold glass in my hands as I head back to the couch. Sitting down, I immediately unlock the phone, my pulse quickening when I see the red notification on the message app. The name Maxim flashes at me.
You are not alone, baby. I will be here waiting for you with open arms if you decide to forgive me, however long that takes. Your heart is my home, Sophia.
I love you.
My breath catches. He was here.
For the first time since I was kidnapped, a smile tugs at the corners of my lips, faint but genuine. It’s a hesitant thing, fragile, but it’s a smile. Hope blooms in my chest—a fragile, golden light amidst the darkness. For the first time in what feels like forever, I allow myself to believe that maybe I can get past this. Maybe, with time, I can heal. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a future where I’m not afraid to be touched, where the memories of what I went through fade into something distant, something I can live with.
I hold onto that hope as if it’s my lifeline, letting it fill the empty spaces in me, even if just for a moment. With a soft exhale, I push myself off the couch and make my way back to my room, clinging to that fleeting euphoria, not knowing what tomorrow will bring but finally allowing myself to hope for the first time in too long.
***
That feeling of hope didn’t last long. The moment I woke up screaming from the nightmares, the scent of cigarettes and mold clinging to my nose, that fragile hope I had felt crashed and burned, leaving me hollow once more.
A week had passed since Maxim last stepped foot in my house, and all I’d done since was sleep. Not that I had much else to look forward to. The therapy on my leg is done, the therapist discharging me with a clean bill of health. He said the recovery was remarkable—no major arteries hit, no lasting damage. I just need to be cautious, take it slow, avoid too much strain. But somehow, knowing I’m physically fine only makes the emptiness worse.
What’s left now? The thought of doing anything is exhausting. I can barely muster the energy to leave my bed, let alone care about the world outside these walls. The drive I once had, the passion to wake up and help my patients every morning, feels like it belongs to someone else now.
My mom keeps texting, asking when she can come by. Even my sister, Jenny, has been messaging more often than usual, checking in, asking how my trip went, how I’m doing. It should feel nice, comforting, even—but it doesn’t. Instead, it makes me uncomfortable, like they’re intruding on a space I can’t share. And worse, it makes me feel guilty—guilty I can’t find the strength to reply, to care enough to see them, to let them in. Besides all of that, what could I say? How do you explain months of silence, lies, and trauma?
One of the older nurses from Lucas’ house has been bringing me food three times a day. She drops off breakfast, lunch, and dinner, only to find each meal waiting for her at the end of the day untouched. I want to tell her to leave me alone, to stop treating me like some charity case, but I don’t even have the strength to form the words. And besides, I know she’s here because Maxim made sure of it. I can feel him behind it all. He’s not giving up on me.
Some days, the thought of him still caring fills me with warmth. It’s the only thing that has kept me moving. The fleeting strength it gives me makes me reach for my phone, ready to call a friend, a therapist, someone to help me deal with everything I’m holding in. But the moment I have the phone in my hand, I freeze. I lock it and put it down. I’m scared. Scared to face what happened. Scared to face anyone.
The door creaks open, and I sink deeper into the bed, pulling the comforter over my head, praying I can pretend to be asleep. But the footsteps are different. Louder. Heavier. Not the usual soft creak of a nurse’s sneakers. These are sharp, purposeful. The sound of expensive shoes on hardwood floors.
Maxim.
A hand brushes my head, his touch warm through the comforter. “You really need to eat, printsessa.”
His voice echoes through the silence, stirring something deep in my chest. My heart flutters, but my gut plummets all at once. What is he doing here? The bed dips as he sits beside me. I try to control my breathing, willing myself to remain still, to make him think I’m asleep. Iwant him to leave.
But then, I feel him lean down, a soft kiss on my head, and my body reacts despite myself. His voice is barely a whisper in my ear. “I know you more than you can possibly imagine.”
His words make the hairs on the back of my neck stand. I hate the way my body betrays me. He pulls the comforter down slowly, exposing my face. His gaze softens, and I see that smile tug at his lips.
“Hey, beautiful,” he whispers. His eyes are intense, searching mine, and I can’t look away. I try to ignore the fluttering in my stomach as his fingers trace my cheek. “I know you told me to stay away, and I’ve been respecting your wishes, fighting myself every day. But you can’t expect me to ignore you when you refuse to eat.”
I don’t deny it. There’s no point. He already knows the truth.
The coldness that follows his sudden absence settles over me. I stare at the spot where he was, trying to regain control of my racing heart and the chaos inside me. But then, the sounds from the kitchen pull me out of my thoughts. I rise, curiosity pushing me forward despite myself.
As I step into the kitchen, the scent hits me—herbs, spices, and something else. Something familiar.
Sopa de pollo.
Tears well up, and for the first time in weeks, my stomach growls. The smell wraps around me, and I’m suddenly a child again, sitting beside my mom as she made this soup for me. On rainy days, when I was sick, or when my heart was broken, she would make me sopa de pollo. It was our thing.
Maxim glances up from the pot, a soft smile on his face as he stirs. “How?” I ask, my voice sounding strange after days of silence.
He steps closer, close enough that I feel the warmth of his body but not too close. “I called your mom,” he says. “Asked if there was something I could make you eat. She asked if ‘cold’ was code for pregnancy.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course she did.”
Maxim laughs. “I assured her it wasn’t. But then she told me when you’re feeling gloomy, she always makes you sopa de pollo.” His attempt at Spanish makes me laugh, and I can’t help but shake my head.
“She said that if I thought I could get away with butchering her recipe, I was a ‘shit eater.’” Maxim raises his eyebrows, his tone full of mock seriousness.
I laugh so hard, I snort, and it feels good, lighter than I’ve felt in a long time. He smiles, his eyes softening, though there’s still a quiet intensity behind them.
“I tried to convince her, but it was pointless. She won.” His voice carries a hint of humor, but I see the sincerity behind it. He wanted to help me.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m not entirely alone in this.
The microwave timer beeps, pulling me from my thoughts and signaling the end of the wait. My mom always hated warming food in the microwave. She said it ruined the taste—everything needed to be heated up on the stove with care and precision. I always thought it was a little obsessive, but I never questioned her.
Maxim doesn’t seem to care about her quirks, though. He moves through the kitchen effortlessly, as if he has been here a thousand times, pulling out bowls and spoons without hesitation. I can’t stop watching him, my thoughts swirling faster than I can catch them. He’s doing this for me, but why? Why is he making such an effort to show me he’s different, that he cares?
He’s a murderer. A man who walks through life with an arrogance so thick, it chokes the air. He’s done terrible things, and yet here he is, in my kitchen, making me soup because he knows it’s the only thing that might make me eat.
I don’t know what to feel anymore. This should be simple. I should know whether I can forgive him. But it’s not. I can’t make up my mind. I can’t decide if I’m angry or if I’m thankful.
Before I can turn away, I feel his presence at the table. He placed the bowl in front of me and is now pulling out the chair. “Please,” he says, and I can hear the plea in his voice. It pulls at something deep inside me, something I thought I had locked away.
With a sigh, I sit down. The spoon feels foreign in my hand at first, but I bring it to my mouth, and the first taste hits me—warm, comforting, the familiar blend of herbs and spices. It’s the taste of my mom’s love, a love I haven’t allowed myself to feel in weeks.
Tears spring to my eyes. I’m not crying for what was done to me. I’m crying for what I’ve lost—the woman I used to be. The naive version of me who never imagined the world could be as cruel as it is. The one who thought love was enough to protect her.
For the first time in weeks, I’m not crying out of pain. I’m grieving the person I used to be, the person who never thought she could be touched by evil.
And then, something shifts. A deep ache opens in my chest, and I feel all the anger, all the hate, all the dark thoughts I’ve been hoarding for weeks, break free. The dam bursts, and my tears come harder, faster. But this time, there’s something else behind them—something more dangerous.
I realize that to heal, I need to let go of the woman I was. The old Sophia died the moment I was taken. She’s gone, and there’s no coming back. But the new Sophia—the one who faced the worst life could throw at her—is here, and she’s not going to stay silent anymore.
I grip the spoon so tightly, it digs into my skin. My eyes lock on the window, my heart pounding in my chest.
The promise forms in my mind, a silent vow. As a doctor, I swore to save lives. But what good is that when I’m the one who needs saving? I’ll stain my hands with blood if it means getting the justice I deserve.
Something inside me cracks open, and a deep obsession takes root. Revenge is no longer a fleeting thought; it’s my driving force. If that’s what I need to move forward, then so be it.
Maxim is sitting across from me, his eyes on me, but I can’t let him be the one to do it. He won’t be the one to take my vengeance. He’s not my savior.
Why have him do it when I can do it myself?
Revenge is the only thing I have left, and I’ll grip it like a lifeline. If that’s what I need to heal, then so be it. I’ll cling to that anger if it’s the only thing that can bring me peace.